Wolves of a Feather
by UnicornPammy
Summary: That's a great parka you got there," Ray said, fingering a tuft of fur on the sleeve. "Where'd you get it?" / "From a bear." Ray stared at her for a moment, then gingerly pulled his hand away, looking mildly horrified. "Oh."
1. Howl

**Wolves of a Feather**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N: **Hmm, my first foray into Due South ficery. I shall try to be worthy of the genre.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. If you sue me, all you will get is my car note and my unpaid credit card bill.

**Chapter One: Howl**

Stanley Raymond Kowalski was cold, wet, and on the verge of total exhaustion. It was just past midnight, and it was raining, and he had lost his partner and his weapon more than an hour ago. His weapon was behind him, somewhere at the bottom of Lake Michigan. His partner was somewhere ahead of him, and steadily moving farther away.

_You're such a fuck-up, Ray._

His breath misted white around his face as he ran, making it hard to keep sight of the ghost-white wolf loping fifty yeards ahead of him. There was a sharp stitch in his side, and his lungs were burning.

His phone rang.

Ray stumbled to a halt, leaning against a lamp post. He bent over with his hands braced on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Without straightening, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He flipped it open and pulled up the antenna with his teeth.

"Aahh," he said into the phone by way of greeting, momentarily incapable of coherence.

"Detective Vecchio?" Welsh's gruff voice was tinged with uncharacteristic worry. "Are you all right?"

"Depends...on your def...finition." He could barely get the words out.

"Dewey informed me of Constable Fraser's abduction, and reported that you were tailing the suspects." Ray heard him mumble something like, "I assumed he meant in your car." "Do you have them in sight?" he said, louder.

Ray attempted to stand upright, still fighting for air. He glanced around the darkened warehouse-district streets. He couldn't see Diefenbaker anymore. Fear choked him, turned his stomach. "No."

"What was that, Detective?"

"I said no, I don't see him."

"What is your location? I'll have someone pick you up."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm following the wolf." He couldn't stop now, even though Dief was gone. He had to keep going.

"Detective-"

"I'll find him." He hung up. He started moving again. "Dief!" he called, despite the knowledge that the wolf was deaf.

The chilling sound of a wolf's howl was his answer. Ray's heart stopped, then ratcheted up to double time. He started running again, moving into a sprint, horrible visions of Mountie hamburger dancing in his head.

Dief's howl echoed down alleys, making it hard for Ray to determine the exact direction it was coming from. He felt like he was in a house of mirrors. Except instead of reflected images, it was ricochets of sound sending him in the wrong directions. He rounded a corner, and flew straight into a trash can, sending it and all its contents, and himself, crashing to the street. Dragging himself back up, Ray ran to the end of the alley, waiting for another long howl to guide him.

He turned to the right, heard the wolf again, and turned around. As he moved the sound grew louder. He was finally heading in the right direction.

When he spotted Dief again, the white wolf was seated below a street lamp, nose pointed up toward the sky, seeming almost to glow in its dim cone of light. Oh, Jesus, he thought. God, please.... He left the prayer unfinished, unable to put his request into words, trusting to God's supposed omniscience to fill in the blanks.

Ray staggered to a halt at the corner, fighting for breath once more. There was no bleeding, dying Benton lying there, but what was there chilled his blood more than a mangled Mountie would have.

Dief stopped howling, and gazed up at Ray, looking very pitiful and alone. Bereft, almost. Grieving. He whined, pawing at the torn, blood-stained, ruined Stetson that lay on the grimy concrete sidewalk.


	2. Dream

**Wolves of a Feather**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** Ok, I know it's been a long time, but here's the next one. The girl is mine, you can't have her!! All else I'm just borrowing until they decide to go home again.

**Chapter 2: Dream**

_2 weeks earlier..._

The air was cold, that bitter, biting cold that hurts as it enters the lungs, then hurts again as it goes out past raw, chapped lips. The wind was fierce, howling through the tall pines, and it tasted of blizzard.

He'd been tracking her through the wilderness for days. She was almost as good at hiding her trail as he was at finding it, but her wolf was blaring their direction with messy footprints, broken twigs, the odd patch here and there of yellow snow. It looked like someone, at least, wanted to be found.

He didn't know who she was, though he thought that perhaps he should. The only impression he had of her was a bear skin parka and long black hair. A shadow, really, disappearing into darkness.

An eagle's cry sounded overhead, and he looked up. The long wings glided effortlessly against the gray sky, skimming lightly through the air despite the angry wind. He saw the long feathers stretched out like fingers, and thought perhaps that they were reaching for something. The graceful creature wheeled away toward the east. He looked in that direction and saw a great, looming shadow rising above the tree tops. Following the faint trail of the woman, and the more obvious one of the wolf for a few more yards, he noticed that they had turned eastward as well.

With an almost unconscious determination, he turned his own feet in that direction. As the trees thinned out, the shadow beyond the forest grew larger. When he stepped free of the woods, he stood before a mountain, all rocky crags and sharp ice. He had to crane his head to see up to the cloud line. The top of it was obscured to his vision.

But it wasn't the top he was interested in. It was the figure in the bear skin parka. And at the moment, he couldn't see her. He frantically scanned the mountainside, but could find no evidence of her. He looked down at the ground again, searching for her trail, and almost missed it. Turning in a circle, he saw a little tuft of charcoal fur stuck in the needles of a small, scrubby pine at the outer edge of the tree line. He touched it with one gloved finger, then looked up at the mountain again, his breath misting about his face. The wind picked up, colder, stronger. Snow started to fall; not fluffy, happy flakes, but tiny stinging daggers that slapped at his bare cheeks like a swarm of angry wasps.

The eagle cried again. He could just barely make out its shape among the dark gray of the approaching storm. It ghosted in a wide, slow circle, invoking images of death.

His flagging endurance stirred by a fresh jolt of adrenaline, he surged forward through the snow drifts toward the base of the mountain. Before he started climbing, he dropped his pack off his shoulders and dug out a few things. Removing his snow shoes, he jammed toe spikes onto his boots. He pulled out a coil of rope and a climber's axe and reslung his pack, looping the rope over one shoulder and gripping the axe in his right hand. Then he began his climb.

He was an accomplished climber, but this mountain seemed intent on proving him a novice. Firm-looking finger- and toe-holds became gravelly skree when he touched it. Icy fingers of wind pulled at his clothes, threatening to rip the hat from his head, at times nearly snatching him from the mountain side. But he just held on, kept going, ignoring the exhaustion and numbness creeping slowly through his body. The eagle's intermittent cries kept him on course, until finally he found a ledge, a deep gouge in the moutainside, and with a final surge of pure determination, pulled himself up and over.

He lay on his side, gasping for air, his muscles trembling. He didn't think he could go any farther. The light was fading, though whether from approaching night or the storm, he could not tell.. _But I can't stop_, he thought. _I can't. She's out here in this storm..._

He rolled to his hands and knees, the movement jarring a groan from his throat, dragged up from the pit of his stomach. It was the sound of a man pushed to his very limit.

And it was answered by the soft, high-pitched whine of a wolf. He looked over, and next to him on this narrow ledge was a heap of bearskin parka. Huddled next to the heap was the ugliest wolf he'd every seen. Dark gray fur broken by pale, shiny, rippling scars. One slanted up across its muzzle toward a small, pink, shriveled ear. Another laid a swath through the fur of its back, revealing the ridge of its spine. The scars were old, long-since healed, but they looked painful even now. A small black pup dozed beside it, snuggled into the warmth of its side.

_A she-wolf and her cub. _

The sudden sound of large wings beating the air made him look outward. The eagle, talons extended, backwinged into a graceful landing. It had looked dark against the gray sky, but he saw now that it was snowy white. It regarded him with its intelligent brown eyes.

The charcoal wolf made a noise in the back of her throat that was somewhere between a whimper and a growl. He couldn't quite tell if it was threat or plea. He couldn't even tell to whom she directed it. The black pup rolled onto its back, all four paws in the air, and snored loudly. It seemed unaffected by the cold.

The eagle replied to the she-wolf in its own language, its beak parting slightly to emit a quieter version of its normal scream.

The parka moved, and something shifted beneath it. He reached over and shifted a corner of the bear skin aside, glancing at the wolf, fearful that she would take action against him for "attacking" her human companion. But the wolf did nothing, just stared at him with her gold coin eyes. Then she looked away, her tongue lolling out in disinterest. He glanced at the eagle, which shifted its wings in a gesture suggestive of a bored shrug.

He pulled back more of the parka, and there was her hair, long and black. Messy, now, her braids coming loose. Gently he pushed back her hair to reveal the side of her face. The sight of that pale face sent a shock through him. He _knew_ this woman. But _how_ did he know her? The muscles in her jaw and around her eye twitched as her brain fought for consciousness.

The wind howled louder, tearing at his coat, at the bearskin parka, at the snowy white feathers and the ruined charcoal ruff. The noise seemed to call the woman up from her sleep. She rolled onto her back, and her eyes fluttered open. They were shards of ice within the frame of her face. Blue as the tundra at dawn, and just as frozen. He knew those eyes, pale eyes that looked odd within her Inuit face. The memory stirred, fought the press of years. He could not remember her name.

She did not seem surprised to see him. Annoyed, but not surprised.

"How did you find me?" She sat up, pulling the parka tight around her shoulders. She looked very shaman-like, even with her messy braids flowing over her shoulders. She folded her legs beneath her.

He was caught without an answer, and without his voice. He had not spoken in days, remaining silent throughout his hunt.

"I followed you," he finally croaked.

She looked skeptical. "How?"

"Your wolf." Ah, his voice was returning.

"My wolf?"

"Yes, your--" he looked down. No scarred she-wolf. No black pup. "There was a w--" he stopped, blinked, pointed to the spot beside her on the ledge. Began again. "There were two wolves, right there."

"Now there are two wolves?"

"Yes, and an eagle."

"There was an eagle?"

He nodded. "A white one."

"A white eagle?" More skepticism. A look that said she thought he was crazy.

"Yes. Anyway, I--"

She cut him off. "Why were you following me, Benton?"

The fact that she knew his name didn't alarm him as much as the sudden realization that he had absolutely no idea why he had followed her.

He looked at her face, the pale blue diamonds that were her eyes. She wasn't a criminal, as far as he knew. She obviously didn't want his help. So why had he followed her?

"I don't know." It was a painful admission.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. He felt his face flush in embarassment. He was surprised he still had the capacity for embarassment, given the roaring blizzard that was mere inches away from them.

He started to stutter out an apology, but she cut him off.

"Ben, go _home._"

Then she shoved him, hard, her palms slamming into his chest. Surprise bloomed in his features, and even as he floated in the air just beyond the ledge, he felt as if he could simply fly down to the ground. But then gravity caught up with him, pulling at him, guiding him on his inexorable descent. She peered over the ledge, and he reached for her, even though he knew it was too late. She wouldn't have helped him anyway.

He kept his gaze locked on her face--he _knew_ that face--as he fell. Then a wall of white shuddered down the mountainside, and she was gone.

* * * * *

Fraser's heart pounded so hard he trembled. His eyes frantically searched the darkness, his body trapped beneath a mountain of snow and ice. His arms and legs thrashed against the weight. The sound of ripping fabric brought him fully awake. He stopped fighting his restraints, and allowed his vision to adjust. Eventually he saw, not a frozen tomb, but the familiar ceiling of his office at the consulate.

He slapped a hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to bring his labored breathing under control. His skin was slick with sweat, his red underalls and even his blankets drenched. That had surely been the most realistic dream he had ever experienced.

Fraser fought off the blankets and sat up in one fluid motion. He just sat there on the edge of his narrow cot for a few long moments, shivering with adrenaline and the sure knowledge of his own death.

He could still feel the impact of her hands on his chest. And that finally made him remember her. Though how he ever could have forgotten her, he had no idea. It just wasn't _like_ him to forget something that important.

Running his fingers through short, sweat-soaked hair, he finally stood and made his way down the hall to the water closet. Lit only by the orange glow of the night-light, Benton stood before the sink, staring at his rumpled reflection in the mirror, lips pursed. Finally he shook his head and looked down, turning on the water and cupping his hands in the flow. Quickly, he splashed his face several times, relishing the iciness of it. It made him think of her again, though, so he snatched up a hand towel and pressed it to his skin. Knowing that he was acting silly, he briskly dried his face and replaced the towel on its rod, smoothing a wrinkle with a meticulous pat.

Returning to his office, he sat down on his pallet, sighing deeply. He debated with himself--out loud--for five full minutes before he finally made the decision to seek advice. And who better to give advice on dreams than one who inhabited a different realm entirely?

He stood again, and turned, opening the closet. Walking into it, he slammed into the back wall, bouncing off. Fumbling for the string attached to the light, he finally caught it in his fingers and yanked. Light flooded the small closet, illuminating the hand-hewn wooden sign suspended from twine that had been hung on a twisted nail.

_Gone bear hunting. Back in three days._

"Three _days?"_ Benton couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. "Well, this is just... He's dead! He can't even pet a bear, let alone kill it." His movements stiff and jerky with irritation, he hauled on the string so hard he nearly brought the light fixture down on his head. Slamming the door behind him, he stomped out and settled down again between his blankets, arms crossed over his chest, lips thinned in intense frustration. "Of all the... _bear_ hunting." He settled down a little more, trying to relax, taking a deep breath and exhaling noisily. "I hope he gets eaten."

* * * * *

A wolf's howl echoed through the trees. Fraser's eyes snapped open, and he sat up, disoriented. But there were walls around him, not trees. Mountains of paperwork instead of rock. And the only wolf in the room was snoring loudly, half-draped across his body and hogging most of the blankets. Untangling himself from wolf and blankets, Benton stood and stretched, feeling uncommonly stiff. He had never minded sleeping on the floor, but for some reason he felt quite out of sorts this morning. And something else was wrong. He couldn't quite name it at the moment.

The door to his office banged open while he was in mid-stretch. Inspector Thatcher stood in the doorway, staring at him, mouth partly open as if she had been about to say something, but the sight of him hampered her capability for speech. Her lower jaw quivered as she fought to get the words out. "Constable," she finally managed, her voice breathy. He jerked his body to attention, hands clasped behind his back, chest and chin up. Thatcher cleared her throat. "Constable," she began again, stronger, more sure. She had forced anger into her voice, as if it were his fault that she had burst in on him half-dressed. Indeed, just rising from sleep.

He watched as she took a deep breath, drawing herself up straighter, pulling her features into a stern mask. "Constable, do you have any idea what time it is?"

Fraser blinked, his eyes moving toward the window. That's what was wrong. It was entirely too bright outside for dawn. He turned his whole body in surprise, and blinked again, holding his eyes closed for a few seconds. He gave his head a tiny shake, as if what he saw could not possibly be the truth, and the scene would be different once he opened his eyes again. But it wasn't. The sun was in exactly the same position. "Great Scot. It's nearly 10:22 am! What have I been doing?"

"Indeed." He didn't miss the Inspector's dry tone. He turned back to her.

"Well, you have my sincerest apologies, sir. I have no idea what's come over me. I'll be dressed and ready in a nonce, if you will excuse me."

She didn't say anything, just stood there staring at him.

"Sir?"

His voice seemed to startle her; or else she was shaking herself out of some daydream. "Very well," she said, almost reluctantly, as if she didn't want to excuse him. As if she would rather watch him dress. "But be in my office in ten minutes."

"Of course, sir."

Thatcher stood in his doorway a few moments more, just staring. "Sir?"

Once again she pressed her lips together in anger. "Ten minutes, Constable!" she barked, then slammed the door behind her.

Benton started dressing, then glanced down at Dief who still snored away on the floor. "You're no help," he accused. He got as far as lacing up his boots before his eyes went to his closet door. Curiosity got the better of him, and he had to check. That foolish sign still hung behind his coats. "Bear hunting," he muttered, then finished dressing. "I hope he gets eaten."

He had to yank the flannel blankets out from underneath the comatose wolf. Folding them, he tossed them into the closet, along with his pillow. He looked down at Dief. "So are you just going to sleep all day?"

His answer was a snore. "Lazy creature."


End file.
